skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Collecting the latest results of Amazon's dreaded one-click ordering at weekend, a wave of sadness enveloped me as I realised that the mail collection office was actually Oldham's room of lost loves.
The young man passed my parcel through the hatch, and as I reached in I spied rows of pigeon holes stuffed with envelopes, many of them patterned with hearts and coloured deep red.
"What are all those?" I asked,
"Oh, they're all the cards that nobody has come to collect 'cos they had the wrong postage on them." he replied.
"Isn't that sad" I ventured,
"Dunno, you wouldn't catch me coming to collect a card that needed paying for."
So all those embryonic loves, those heartfelt yearnings remain lying there in the dark, for the want of a few pennies. And what of the emotion that was poured into those envelopes? The hope that accompanied the lustful longings? Somewhere someone is crying into their pillow wondering why they have been spurned, ignorant that their fate lay in one simple mistake of misjudging the size (of the envelope - before you get any smutty ideas).
I considered whether I'd risk a gamble of a few pence and a possible wasted journey to see what mysteries the left mail office had for me. I decided I definitely would. Yes, the young man was rather hard-hearted, if you ask me.
Then I realised where I'd heard his accent before, yes, that was it. He was from Barnsley or near by, where they must have a very large Room of Lost Love.
Had you asked me last week whether I liked Pickering, I would probably have replied that I didn't know: never having pickered. That was last week; and at the end of last week Mrs C and I spent three nights in our country residence (pictured) just outside the North Yorkshire town of Pickering.
Despite trying to dispense with its sleepy market town image - according to some websites - Pickering's entire charm is exactly that: sleepy Yorkshire market town. It has one supermarket and many real shops: a fishmonger with its own smokery at the back, a greengrocer, butcher and baker all selling local produce; it also seems to have a quaint barter-type economy between local traders: I witnessed the petshop owner exchange a pint of maggots for three bags of Lamb's Lettuce with the greengrocer (who was a fisherman, just in case you were wondering).
The fish lady (and I was tempted to say fish-wife) was a typically blunt (to the point of being ascerbic) Yorkshire woman. Whilst I was choosing from the fabulous range of home smoked fish she said to me,
"Are yer just looking or are yer going to buy summat lad, only I want to get this fridge cleaned out".
I bought summat; and it was lovely.
There's something restorative about clean country air; as Mrs C, the dog and I sat sipping a glass of wine outside our temporary home in the twilight surrounded by candles, I wouldn't rather have been anywhere else.
P.S. Sorry I didn't let my loyal readers know we were going away, only I didn't want our local burglar William (Billy to his friends) calling round and have him feel the wrath of my two burly sons.
